


My Notebook and My Limit

by toomuchgawking



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:15:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchgawking/pseuds/toomuchgawking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments, and Steve thinks that might make it all worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Notebook and My Limit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Luna just because.
> 
> Contains references to canon-compliant brainwashing and memory loss.

There are moments, and Steve thinks that might make the whole thing hurt more.

They’re watching movies, because Bucky never got the chance to after he fell, and now he consumes them voraciously. It gives them a chance to almost feel normal, when they’re both sitting on the couch, sometimes with popcorn, engrossed in whatever the story on the screen. Steve finds highlights lists for all the decades they slept or sleepwalked through, and it’s one of the only things he can always get Bucky to come out for. And there are moments, like when they’re watching Singin’ In The Rain, and sometimes Bucky laughs like it’s been punched out of him, like he’s surprised by it. And when Steve glances over he’s still smiling. It takes Steve’s breath away. Bucky smiles and it’s like all the exhaustion and stress lifts away from his face, he looks younger, looks happy. And he notices, because he always has, and he meets Steve’s gaze calmly.

”You’re supposed to be watching the movie, not me, dumbass.” But there’s no heat in his voice, and when Steve knocks their shoulders together he doesn’t move away.

He comes home to find Bucky cooking, poking at something in the frying pan and frowning. He doesn’t look up when Steve comes in, and on closer inspection the frying pan is holding something that looks a little like it was once an omelette, broken in multiple places with cheese oozing out of it in multiple places.

”Looks good,” he lies.

Bucky snorts, kicking out lightly at his ankle.

”After how pleased you used to get when we got eggs in Europe, I’d have thought you’d do better,” Steve continues, aware he could be crossing a line.

Bucky just rolls his eyes. “Scrambling them in a tin can above a campfire is a _very_ different process.” He gave the contents of the pan another poke. “I think it’s a lost cause.”

”You could try and _make_ it a scramble,” Steve offers.

Bucky takes the pan off the heat, and turns the element off. “Not worth it. I’m writing it off.”

Steve laughs, and Bucky looks up, amusement and exasperation warring on his face.

Steve falls asleep on the couch and wakes up to Bucky sitting in the armchair flipping through his sketchbook.

”Didn’t realise how much you were showing your age,” he says, without looking up. “Having afternoon naps and everything. Or were you just resting your eyes?”

Steve, who’d spent most of the day chasing down some kind of corporate espionage AIM strike team (he doesn't really get it) as a favour for Tony, just stretches, letting his back crack. “Snooping, are you?” he asks, tiredly.

Bucky’s gaze flickers to him, and then he looks back at the book with a small smile. “No secrets between roommates.”

Steve snorts, twisting on the couch. “Liar.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, flipping the sketchbook shut and placing it back on the coffee table. Slowly, deliberately, he stands and walks over to crouch by Steve’s head. “You draw me a lot,” he says. It’s a statement, not a challenge, and his voice is mild. Steve looks at him carefully, but his face doesn’t look blank or flat in the way that characterised days where he was more Winter Soldier than himself

”Do you remember why?” he asks, honestly curious. In some ways Bucky seems more like himself every week, but he doesn’t talk much about the gaps in his memories, so Steve has no way of knowing.

Bucky cocks his head. “I think so.”

”You think?” Steve smiles. But anything else he could have said is cut off by Bucky leaning forward and pressing their lips together.

It’s the first time they’ve kissed in seventy years, and it feels the same. Bucky’s gentle, almost tentative, not touching Steve at all except the point of contact at their lips. Steve relaxes, matching his pace as he kisses back. It’s slow, and warm, and his eyes slide shut as Bucky leans further into it. The last time they’d kissed has been in Austria, Steve thinks. Making camp near the train lines, waiting for more information to come over the radio. It had snowed almost the whole time they were there, and in the cold and the wet no one looked twice at two people squeezed into one bedroll. Not that anyone in the commandos didn’t know by then. Bucky had been pressed tight again him, lips wet and nose freezing cold against his face. It’d been briefer than they would’ve liked; Bucky had pulled away and buried his icy nose into Steve’s neck and said it was too cold to keep going. And Steve had been so _happy_

He hasn’t felt that way in a long time.

Bucky’s right hand slides onto his cheek, and Steve sighs into the kiss.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Bucky pulls away.

Steve opens his eyes.

There’s something clouded in Bucky’s gaze, and he rocks back further, pulling his hand away from Steve’s face. He licks his lips slowly.

Bucky?”

”Yeah, sorry,” he says, voice hoarse. “I- sorry.” He drops his head forward, pressing their foreheads together for a moment. Then he stands, walks to his bedroom, and shuts the door after him. Steve lets him go, waits until he’d gone until twisting to face away, trying to hold onto the feeling of Bucky’s lips against his.

It's just moments, that's the problem. Flashes where it feels like something better, like Bucky wants to be there, like neither of them are scared or scarred. And that all disappears underneath the hours Bucky spends in his room, or on the fire escape, or shying away when Steve comes near. He’s still the Winter Soldier more than he’s Bucky, and Steve’s the leash he’s clipped himself too more than he’s his friend. It terrifies Steve that he thinks sometimes Bucky would prefer it that way, if he couldn’t remember. If he was just the weapon. If he was unleashed with a purpose when it was necessary instead of having to be present, having to live through every moment. He wants to hold him, to drag Bucky out with his fingernails, but he can’t. All he has is the moments, and Bucky’s closed door.


End file.
